


We Burn and Freeze Together

by theonsfavouritetoy



Series: A Song of Our Own (Until Springtime) [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, I'm sorry I killed off so many characters before the story even starts, M/M, Post GOT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-11-03 17:43:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17882309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theonsfavouritetoy/pseuds/theonsfavouritetoy
Summary: Winter is still here. It’s colder than ever before, as if every warmth had been sucked out of the world with every soul leaving its surface.





	We Burn and Freeze Together

**Author's Note:**

> Part Two of the ASOIAF Rarepair Week for the prompt: Burning // Freezing
> 
> Theon has found Jon out on the field, but he's not save yet. And Theon has way too much time to think about things.

Winter is still here. It’s colder than ever before, as if every warmth had been sucked out of the world with every soul leaving its surface. The quietness is grating, only broken by the men in the wolfswood, hacking away at the trees. They need wood. 

The smith is there with them, overseeing the work and flinging his own axe as if it was his beloved hammer, cutting down trees as if they were wights, angry and relentless. Sansa says the wolf, Arya’s wolf, hasn’t left him, staying by his side at all times. They’re both grieving. 

He cannot help them. All Theon can do is stay inside, in the rooms undamaged by war and dragons. He’s cold, despite the heavy furs Sansa has provided him with. She doesn’t seem to feel the cold herself, is everywhere at once, cataloging what is left of her castle, determining what needs to be done. 

The bodies are gone. They have burned them in the field, a giant roaring fire that had lasted for days. It hadn’t been warm enough to warm Theon. He tries to stay on his feet, tries to help Sansa caring for the few wounded men that have made it, for the women and children that seek shelter with them. 

The children are afraid of Theon, some of the women remember him. He couldn’t say what is worse, the scared little faces or the pitying, shocked ones. Most of the time he tries not to see. 

Nights are worse. There’s no threat now, no imminent danger of a hellish creature coming to get them all, nothing but a slow creeping fate of freezing to death. Not starvation, not now. They have supplies aplenty, meant to last for a lot more people than they have to feed now. 

Theon can’t sleep. He spends his nights in the warmest room of the castle, the one where they have placed the king in bed. It used to be part of the women’s flight of rooms, maybe the Septa’s. Sansa says she can’t remember. Theon thinks she doesn’t want to. 

They keep Jon under a sheer mountain of furs, weighing him down so he won’t toss and turn. His wounds are not healing as they should. Theon often lays his hand on his king’s forehead, fighting back the guilt at how much he enjoys the heat of the fever, burning his palm. 

The fever is dangerously high, no matter what they do. Jon hasn’t regained consciousness yet, he moans and writhes as if he were really burning. He’s not a dragon like  _ she _ was. Jon always liked the cool of a northern summer day. An ice dragon, Theon thinks, shuddering at the thought of the great dead beast and its blue flames. 

He’s just so cold. He’s scared. If they lost Jon, lost him now that Theon had found him against all odds, he doesn’t know how he’d be able to bear it. He cannot lose him too. Not him, not now, not before they had the chance to see what could have become of them, if war hadn’t been hanging over their heads. 

Theon holds his hand with both of his own, trying to soak up the heat, trying to let the life running through Jon’s veins calm him down. He places a hand on Jon’s chest, right over the older wound from the dagger that killed Jon the first time, feeling the heartbeat. As long as it’s there, there’s hope. 

Jon is burning, and Theon is freezing to death by his side. It’s Sansa who says it out loud, on one of her frequent rounds to check on Jon. Theon has thought of it himself, but discarded the idea immediately. He can’t do that, not when he doesn’t know how Jon would feel about it. Not with so much still to do. 

“You should get in there,” Sansa says, holding out a bowl of broth for Jon. “You’re shaking so hard I can hear your teeth chattering in every part of the castle.”

What if the cold isn’t good for Jon? What will the others think? Theon should help more, but he cannot chop wood or lug stones. He can only sit here, useless and shivering. He’s shivering so hard he can’t hold the spoon, and Sansa takes it away from him, patiently feeding it to Jon drop after drop.

Theon watches him swallow, watches her steady hands, the calm on her face. Maybe she thinks of marrying Jon, if he survives. If they survive. If Winter should ever end. It would make sense. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Theon,” she says, looking at him with mocking blue eyes. “I know what you’re thinking. No need to be jealous. Besides, I do have a husband.”

A husband who’s been missing for many months now. No one knows where he is, and if he’s still alive. Sansa is so sure of it… that he’ll return to her whenever he is able to. Theon thinks the Lannister bitch has probably eaten her dwarf brother for breakfast before perishing herself, giving birth. He doesn’t say it. Why ruin Sansa’s hope?

At least she knows. Her own feelings and Tyrion’s. Theon knows nothing of what it is he feels, has thought he’d recognized the tight sensation in his chest whenever he’d looked at Jon, whenever Jon had looked back, a hint of a smile in his haunted eyes. 

But what if he was wrong? What if it was pity that made Jon’s gaze so warm, what if it was just comradery and more pity that made Jon take his hand when they were waiting for the army of the dead? What if? 

What if Jon woke up now to see Theon at his bed, not one of his friends, not the wildling, not the chief crow? Not Davos? Only Theon, only the turncloak, the freak, this trembling, sad joke of a man. Less than a man. Maybe Jon will wish it were different. Theon is sure he’d trade him for every single one of them. 

“Get in there,” Sansa says again, startling Theon out of his thoughts. He’s forgotten she’s here. “He won’t mind. Try to get warm.”

Theon watches her stroke over Jon’s damp hair, watches her gather the bowl and spoon and leave. He looks down at Jon, the drops of sweat on his brow, the red in his face. Theon takes off his gloves again, both of them, carefully arranging his stiff hands to cradle Jon’s face. The heat is immense, and with it comes pain. It’s a good pain, biting and stinging in his whole fingers. It means they’re not frostbitten yet. 

Jon seems to calm down a little, maybe the cool of Theon’s palm is good on his hot skin, maybe it’s a relief. Theon inhales deeply, hand gliding down under the furs to Jon’s heart. It beats so quick, angry and strong enough to make Theon think they will get him through this. 

“M hot.”

Theon starts at the murmur, snatching his hand away and searching Jon’s face for a sign of consciousness. There is none, his eyes are still closed, but he mumbles something again and Theon bends close to his mouth to hear. 

“Too hot,” Jon says in his feverish sleep, “too hot.”

And Theon is still so cold. 

It wins out, in the end, the longing for warmth and for another human being close, the need to stay there with him, be there should he wake up, be warm and safe for once. The guilt, the shame, all the what ifs disappear for the moment as Theon stretches out beside his king under the furs, edging close to the blistering heat seeping through his own clothes. 

Jon mumbles something again, something Theon doesn’t understand. He doesn’t want to. This way he can pretend it was something sweet, something meant for him. He closes his eyes, pressing his cold frozen face against Jon’s burning skin, and sleeps.

**Author's Note:**

> I do SO hope I'm not right in my death-predicitons here. I mean, Edd *sobs*  
> Don't cassandra me if it comes to that >_<
> 
> Would love to hear your thoughts, as always!  
> Find me on tumblr too (owlsinathens)


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